


Pleasures Greater

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Light BDSM, Power Dynamics, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 09:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: Why care for anything save this foolish lovers' talk of everything and nothing, and for the strap of her shift slipping toward the curve of her shoulder?





	Pleasures Greater

**Author's Note:**

> This work features some light BDSM themes, between two characters in an established, trusting relationship. As such, I felt I could get away without an in-fic discussion of consent. Rest assured: Hawke's consent is given, freely and often.

 

* * *

 

_Naught is sacred, my love,_

_save this: our gazes meeting in_

_a clear pool, your hands at_

_dawn, our feet, forever facing in the_

_same direction, but most of all your_

_voice, in the world between one word_

_and the next._

 

Viola Kashkin, 8:17 Blessed

 

***

Fenris returns to Kirkwall in as foul a mood as he can remember. Guarding a merchant caravan at the height of summer is miserable enough, but when the cargo unexpectedly turns out to be dried fish — well. He can hardly be faulted for wanting to tie up Varric in place of the Hanged Man's current statue.

There was little else to occupy him these last few weeks; Hawke was gone to Wycome as a favor to Aveline, and would be gone for nearly a month, and Sebastian was once again in Starkhaven. He could have spent his time gambling, or reading, even training, but the combination of boredom and little coin made him take the job as soon as Varric mentioned it.

The damn dwarf probably laughed up his sleeve the entire two weeks Fenris was gone, breathing the salty reek and pretending not to hear the merchants whispering about the laziness of knife-ears — a whisper that ended, Fenris notes sourly, as soon as the first bandit call sounded. But Fenris is a full five gold richer, and a letter from Hawke waits for him when he walks into his mansion. 

She is home, she is in Hightown, and she will see him at the Hanged Man, whenever he returns.

He could wait — sleep off the remnants of his frustration and bad temper, indulge in a bath or five, and meet Hawke that evening. Or, he could bathe now, and be at her door within the hour.

No contest. Before he finishes reading her letter, he has already stripped to the waist and is hunting down a clean tunic and leggings.

He has few fellow travelers on the short trip; a storm gathers to the west, promising a full storm before the sun sets, and the heat alone is enough to keep most nobles indoors. Those he passes are mostly servants or shopkeepers, all wilted from the heat, and a rare ice merchant, whistling as she drives her empty cart back toward Lowtown.

Despite the heat, Hawke's house is cool and silent when Fenris lets himself in. No mabari comes bounding to greet him, no Bodahn follows close behind. All the fires and candles have mercifully been doused, and only the embers in the kitchen stove still glow. Library, parlor, guest rooms — all are empty, dust motes whirling in light when he peers inside, save for Hawke's dim room.

And there, with something too sharp to be relief, he finds Hawke.

He pushes the door closed, careful not to wake her. She dozes on a couch under an open window, a water glass and clay bowl near her fingers, both beaded with condensation. A book lies open on her belly, forgotten; he smiles as he recognizes the cover: a military history of the Anderfels, one he read that past winter while she occupied herself with poetry and Varric's atrocities. Small wonder it put her to sleep; he nodded off over its pages more times than he cares to admit.

A faint breeze stirs the hem of her shift and a few wayward strands of hair. She looks weary, even asleep, with deep circles beneath her eyes and a looseness to her body that tells of true exhaustion. Fenris almost leaves, reluctant to wake her in spite of their long separation — there'll be time for reunions later, and perhaps another bath would not be amiss — but she stirs, feet arching as she stretches, and opens her eyes.

After all these years, he can still be caught off guard; the sight of her pierces him like lightning. For a moment, he forgets his small miseries, and simply watches a smile dawn slowly on her face.

"Hawke," he says, smiling back, foolishly.

"Well, well," she says, one foot slipping off the couch to swing inches above the thick carpet. "Now _this_ is the only acceptable way to wake up. Or am I still dreaming?"

"Are you trying to flirt with me?" He makes his way across the room slowly, drinking her in: a fresh bruise on her shoulder, hair messily braided, skin still silken from her own bath. A _month_ left him in this state; what would a year without her do to him?

Make him an utter idiot, he supposes, and sets the thought aside.

"I thought I was being quite successful, but if you disapprove…" Hawke shifts the book off her stomach and sits up on her knees as he reaches the couch. He must bend down to kiss her properly, but any discomfort evaporates when she winds her arms around his neck and sighs happily against his mouth. "Welcome home, love," she says, when they finally part. "How are you?"

Fenris debates avoiding the question; thinking of the job, of the weeks before it without Hawke, bored out of his skull, sets his spine in steel, and he'd been determined not to bring any cares to her so soon. But she smiles at him, stroking his jaw with her thumbs, and while her magic sets his marking gently humming, he sighs.

"Better now," he says. "No more needs to be said."

"Varric told me about the fish." Hawke rolls her eyes as Fenris groans. "He swore he didn't know, and that he'd make it up to you somehow — I told him to let it be, for your sake _and_ his. And not to write about it, which is _definitely_ for his sake."

"You're a wise woman, Hawke."

She kisses the corner of his mouth. "I have my moments."

He lets her tug him down to the couch, where a rain-scented breeze skims the back of his neck. Hawke arranges herself with her legs splayed over his lap, her crossed ankles warm against his hip, and sighs, still smiling. Her face is bare of all her usual paints, no crimson or gold in sight; without them, she looks like the village girl she left behind nearly a decade ago, dreamy and soft-cheeked. Or so he thinks — the Hawke who belonged to Lothering was a year gone when he came to Kirkwall, and he will never know her.

It is not a regret he feels often — they are together, now, and no amount of dreaming can replace that — but it slips through him as she speaks, pillowing her head on his shoulder. What, he wonders, would Rhyssa and Leto have made of each other, _if_?

Leto, whoever he had been, probably would have no more known what to make of Rhyssa than Fenris knew what to make of Hawke. She seemed such a simple problem at first — a mage, and therefore dangerous — but mere hours later, she had made him laugh, made him speak of staying, in spite of all his caution. The youth he had been would have stood no chance at all.

He realizes, belatedly, Hawke has gone quiet, and is watching him with a near-wistful smile curving her lips. "My apologies," he says, running his hand down the length of her braid, a part of him still amazed at the ease of his gesture. "I didn't hear you."

"You were a thousand miles away, from the look on your face." Her own fingers trail down his arm, leaving a warm thrum in their wake. "Not that I was saying anything important, just lamenting my complete failure to make anything out of that book." She waves a hand at it, frowning. "Varric and Aveline are always telling me to read more than poetry. Teach me to listen to them."

Fenris snorts. "I think they meant you should try more prose, not impenetrable military histories."

" _You_ did well enough," she accuses, playfully. "Oh, don't be shy about it, you're far better at strategic thinking than I am — yes, go ahead, be pleased with yourself, we all know it's true."

"The thought never crossed my mind." Hawke gives that blatant lie the unimpressed look it deserves, then sighs once more and curls back against him. "Why did you try it?" he asks. Her library is full of books, not just poetry but histories enough to occupy a dozen scholars, as well as an indecent number of what she calls _indulgences_ and Isabela calls _smut_. She has no shortage of reading material, even if she ignores the signed copies of Varric's novels the dwarf insists on giving them all. Fenris uses his to replace faulty legs on his furniture.

"You liked it, so I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Maker knows you've put up with me reading bits of Kashkin and Miroletto at you for years, it was about time I returned the favor."

Fenris strokes her calf, smiling to himself. She read the Kashkin to him in bed, during last winter's worst blizzard. Kashkin being Kashkin, they found inspiration enough to keep them occupied till the streets were cleared, three days later. "You found it dry going, I assume?" he asks, before the memory of the Kashkin — and Hawke kneeling between his legs, hands gentle on his thighs — can once again distract him.

"I don't know how you do it, but I made it about thirty pages before — well, you walked in on me napping, so you see how that went. Serves me right, my ego is now utterly deflated."

"Unlikely. If not entirely impossible."

She digs her heel into his thigh, laughing, then drapes herself over his arm. "Fine. I admit I'm rather fortified in that department. And I admit there are about four thousand things I'd rather do than try to fight my way through a chapter on all the names of King Such-and-Such's knights, who did Andraste knows what, and why."

"Four thousand things." Fenris lets his fingers slip past the hem of her shift, under the curve of her knee. It seems the memory of the Kashkin will not be easily repressed — though after a month without Hawke, Fenris finds he has little interest in denial. She is here, he is home, and there is no better way to spend the next few hours.

 _Or all the night,_ he thinks, reaching out to tilt Hawke's mouth to his.

The kiss has just become interesting — the way she gasps as his teeth graze her lip will never fail to go straight to his cock — when Hawke breaks away, twisting down toward the floor.

"Hawke?" he asks, one hand at her back to steady her. "Is all —"

"I almost forgot!" She hauls up the heavy bowl, beaming merrily at his bemusement. "A treat for a hot day — I know they're not your favorite, but they're cold and sweet, so what more could we ask for?"

 _For no interruptions, perhaps_ , he thinks, well aware of the futility. Hawke pushes the bowl into his hands, then reaches within to fetch a handful of dark, gleaming fruit.

Cherries, their skin so plump they seem ready to burst at the slightest pressure. He shivers as she bites one in half — from the chill of the bowl, and the cold cantrip upon it, not from the glimpse of her pink tongue, or the trail of dark juice at the corner of her mouth.

Hawke grins, lips stained, and holds a cherry out to him. "No pits," she says, clearly delighted by her own cleverness. "Took care of that ahead of time."

"You're not as ignorant of strategy as you claim," he says, before he takes the cherry from her fingers and drops it into his mouth.

It's almost frozen, the way Hawke prefers her fruit, but more tart than sweet. He chews slowly, swallows, and finds Hawke waiting, another cherry ready, lips darker than before, and a sly light in her eyes.

" _Like fresh-made fruit, my lover's skin/Pales in moonlight, glows at dawn,_ " she declaims, leaning forward to take the bowl. Her thigh muscles shift against his own as she moves, and the smell of her skin, clean and honey-edged, leaves Fenris almost breathless.

"Kashkin," he says, needlessly, and eats the cherry from her fingers.

"You have an excellent memory, love," she replies, smiling — then hums in pleasure as Fenris takes her wrist, and kisses the juice from her fingertips.

They talk then for a long time, in between feeding each other from their own hands. The frustration remains, deep beneath his skin, but Hawke's closeness, her surprised laughter as he catches her finger in his teeth, lets him pay it no regard. Why care for anything save this foolish lovers' talk of everything and nothing, and for the strap of her shift slipping toward the curve of her shoulder?

Beyond them, the storm rolls in over Kirkwall, and the thunder's first rumble sounds over Hawke telling him of the newest songs she learned in Wycome's taverns. She sings a few verses, eyes closed and head tilted back, and no, Leto would have been lost at once.

By the time the storm breaks overhead, they've once more laughed over the history — she had read far more than thirty pages, as Fenris had guessed — and fallen silent as the rain begins to stain the streets below them. Fenris lets his head loll against the back of the couch, grateful for the sharp, cool wind billowing the curtains. Hawke hums, eyes half-lidded, and presses into his hand when he lets it stray halfway up her thigh.

His fingers find the ridge of an old scar — from a Tal-Vashoth spear, he remembers, with a dim echo of the rage that filled him when she fell. But she'd stood again a moment later, teeth bared, and while the Tal-Vashoth laughed and called her a badger in their tongue, she flung two of them over the edge of a cliff, screaming.

Hawke shifts. Fenris pauses, watching her face, but when she only pouts with juice-stained lips, he continues his slow progress up her leg. She sighs, eyes sliding closed, and stretches her arms over her head. The change in position does fascinating things to her breasts — no doubt Hawke is as aware of this as he is — and an abrupt wrench of want defeats the last of his frustration.

There have been days when such a tiny tease would have found him upon her in an instant, his mouth on hers and both of them racing to see who could get out of their clothes faster. There will be days like that again. Today, her tease awakens something else in him, a new species of desire. Slower, with endless patience, and control.

No, not new, merely latent. He's felt this before — the night of the Kashkin, and many others besides. He would tease, and she would let him, her smile rich and honey-slow, till they both were panting, boneless, laughing in astonishment at the depth of their game.

 _It could be deeper_ , he thinks, as his fingers meet the cleft of her thigh. He expects to meet some scrap of fine silk or muslin, but, all he finds is bare skin, and warmth.

Hawke's hips lift, ever so slightly, when his hand pauses. The flush returns to her cheeks as he looks to her face, and she bites her dark lip. "It was hot," she says. "And there was no one here, they've all gone for the day, so I —"

This is delicious, Hawke flustered and stumbling over her words, all teasing gone. His cock stiffens under the warm weight of her thighs, and she shifts again, eyes cutting away before she looks back up at him through her lashes.

"Hot," he says, well-pleased with the steadiness of his voice. Hawke flushes a deeper red, the color spilling down her neck toward the swell of her breasts. Fenris strokes her cheek, his want tempered with a great tenderness he did not know he could feel when she turns her face into his hand, and kisses his palm.

Whatever games they play, wherever they go, they will have this stillness, this quiet. It cannot be broken, it cannot be taken away. He loves her, she loves him. There is no greater truth in the world. There is little else he needs.

"Very," she says, arching her back as his fingers trail down her throat. "But it's cooling now, though this rain will…"

Fenris allows himself one tiny smirk as her voice cuts off. His hands have been busy; one strokes the smooth curve of her thigh while the other cups her breast. Their position is an awkward one, him sitting, her legs hooked over his, but that is easily remedied, if he chooses to pursue the new game forming in his mind. But first —

He pulls back his hands, waits until she meets his gaze. "Hawke."

A breath, no more, while they watch each other. Her pulse jumps in her throat, but she nods. A single glance, and she understands what it is he asks of her. He hardly knows himself — images flash through his mind's eye, too swift to form into a whole — but she understands.

 _I am the luckiest person in all of Thedas_.

Hawke's lips are cool and sweet from the fruit, and he only pulls away when she takes his tunic in her fist and tries to pull him toward her. "You'll tell me," he says, because there must be no doubt, no question, if he is — if they are — to follow this desire. "If there is anything — if you wish me to stop."

The words gild the air between them; they've put no name to this, given it no shape, but the ideas have taken form in his mind, and it seems the floor has dropped away beneath his feet. Unbroken ground takes its place.

Hawke nods again, her pulse still fluttering, though the light fails and the rain sheets down in torrents. Gooseflesh rises on her skin. "Right away," she says, for she knows he must hear it before they go on, "if there's anything. I promise. But, till then — I want what you want, Fenris."

When he kisses her again, he does not stop until his lungs ache. Hawke falls against him, breathing hard, and only makes a quiet sighing sound when he tugs her shift down to bare her breasts. Just the sight of them fills his head with a dozen images — spilling his seed across those firm curves chief among them — all unfamiliar, all intoxicating.

All this time, all these nights together, and there is so much yet to try. Hawke watches him, one hand still gripping his tunic, the other held by her head. Her shift is rucked to her hips, her thighs barely parted. It occurs to the wry, rational part of Fenris' mind that Hawke is, in this moment, a perfect example of _wantonness_.

The rest of his mind is too occupied by the slow hardening of her nipples to appreciate the realization.

"Should we close the window?" she asks, after he has stared at her for some moments in silence.

Startled from his reverie — the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath is a near-flawless distraction — he blinks at her. "What for?"

"It's — it's cooling off, and I don't — I could light a fire, if we needed one, I suppose, but…" She shrugs, eyes everywhere but on his, and Fenris has a small revelation: she is _shy_ , and it is perhaps the first time he has seen her so.

If he thought his want abrupt before, if he thought it hot, he'd been a fool. It roars through him, leaving his skin prickling in its wake. "Are you afraid of being too loud?" he says, moving from beneath her to crouch over her, their foreheads touching. "Hawke?"

She nods after a moment, smiling a little sheepishly. "I know, I'm ridiculous, go ahead and laugh, if you like."

Fenris kisses her cheek, the curve of her jaw. "I don't —" A kiss to her earlobe to make her sigh, and one to the hollow below to make her gasp. "— want to laugh. I want to _make_ you be that loud."

He almost shies away from saying that last, but Hawke's reaction — a held breath, wide eyes, a tighter grip on his tunic — makes him glad he didn't. Bending to kiss her, he lowers his weight to rest against her fully, and does his best to ignore the urge to thrust when Hawke wraps her arms and legs around him.

She writhes below him as they kiss, her breathing coming fast and her nails pricking through his tunic, but Fenris keeps kissing her, deep, and unhurried. His cock strains at his trousers, pulsing each time she grinds her hips against his, and it takes a monolithic self-restraint to not simply slip inside her, as they are. Even through his clothes he feels how wet she is, and knows how easily she could take him — all soft, almost-unbearable heat — but he has a clear idea now, of what he wants, and he will not hurry. No matter what pleading noises Hawke makes against his mouth.

He takes pity on her soon enough, when her thighs tighten about his hips and she tugs at his tunic. With a great deal of huffing and pouting, she pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, and reaches for his trousers. Before she can get her fingers on the laces — Fenris knows precisely where his restraint ends — he grabs her wrists, and pins them over her head.

Hawke inhales, too sharp to be a gasp, when Fenris bends his head to one rosy, hard nipple, and barely touches it with his tongue. Her entire body jolts when he finally covers it with his mouth, and — gently, gently as he can — laves a circle all around the puckered flesh.

Hawke starts to say his name, but he takes her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches, and the second syllable disappears into a moan.

He could toy with her like this for hours, until she begs for his fingers and his cock. Though the blood rushes in his ears at the thought — _Fenris, please, I need you, I need you inside me_ — he holds himself back, yet again. A time for everything, everything in its time.

She almost sobs when he finally pulls away, her eyes bright and the skin of her breasts warmed pink from his touch. Fenris pauses long enough to stroke her cheek, to kiss her forehead, and to watch her gaze for any kind of hesitation. When Hawke smiles back, and trails her fingers down his ribs, he lifts her with an arm around her waist, and — he never remembers how he managed the move later, only that he had — settles her on his lap, her back pressed to his bare chest.

"Yes?" he asks, nipping at her ear, and the line of her neck.

Hawke gasps. " _Yes_ ," she breathes, nestling closer against him.

Fenris feels her heart beating through bone and skin, as light and fast as a bird's. For a moment, he simply relishes her warmth, cupping her heavy breasts and thumbing at her nipples. Hawke arches her back at every touch, not quite moaning but not silent either, and lets her head fall back against his shoulder.

A flicker of movement across the room catches his eye. Fenris raises his head from the curve of Hawke's shoulder, reluctantly, and finds himself meeting his own gaze. One of Hawke's mirrors — a great ostentatious beast, as tall as she is and twice as wide — reflects their faces back to him, though the bed blocks the full view of their bodies. What he does see is enough to heat his own cheeks: Hawke, eyes closed and lips parted, her head resting on his shoulder, and his hands moving restlessly, almost desperately, over her bare breasts and down toward her hips. When he slips his fingers between her thighs, into wet, enticing heat, Hawke jolts, eyes flying open.

As does her reflection.

Below all the sensations shouting for his attention, an idea has begun to take shape. Fenris lets it be; it will cohere in its own time. He has enough to occupy himself in the present.

He presses deeper between her legs, slowly, relishing his progress and how it seems to dissolve Hawke into a shivering, whining helplessness. His grip is not firm, she could break it with a shrug, but if anything she responds _more_ when he tightens his arms around her, shaking and crying out at every touch.

 _I have not even begun to tease her._ Fenris almost laughs — what will she be in a half-hour, if she is so overcome now? — but only lets himself smile into the heavy fall of her hair instead. His reflection looks uncommonly pleased with himself when Fenris chances a glance across the room — and why should he not? Hawke, indecent and warm and flushed crimson, nearly sings with every touch. If there were ever a time for smug pride, it is now.

He turns her face toward his with a gentle hand on her chin. Her lips still bear the stain of the cherry's juices, her eyes are hazy with pleasure. A little clarity returns to her gaze as he smooths back a few loose strands behind her ear, and she smiles at him, trembling and sweet, and leans in for a kiss as if it were the only possible thing in the world.

Fenris kisses her until she sighs, and tension building in her thighs and belly begins to fade, then eases the very tip of his finger into her.

Hawke freezes, not making a sound. Fenris waits till she relaxes again and lifts her hips to meet his touch. She would prefer his tongue, he well knows, but there will be time for that. Time enough for everything they both desire.

One finger becomes two. Hawke moans at every shallow thrust, her sex tightening around his fingers as she squeezes her thighs about his wrist to hurry him on. He keeps to his pace — though he is not too proud to admit, if silently, it poses a far greater challenge than he expected — until Hawke's breathing turns sharp and quick, and her hips strain forward.

When he stops, she makes a near-panicked noise, protesting in a hoarse whisper as he withdraws his fingers, and then sinks back against him, limp and panting.

"Not fair," she murmurs, while he covers her neck with kisses. "I was — that's not _fair_ , Fenris."

"Wasn't there a line in the Kashkin," he whispers into her ear, just to make her shudder, "about the pleasures of denial and anticipation?"

"I have no idea." She turns her head to meet his mouth, almost feverish in her warmth. "At the moment, I also have no idea who Kashkin is."

Fenris snorts, embraces her with both arms. Hawke's body shakes in answering, if subdued, laughter. They rest for a time — perhaps only minutes, perhaps longer, while a fine mist of rain comes in through the window to cool their skin. She shifts once or two, her desire clearly unwaning, but gives no protest when Fenris simply lets his hands play over her body, unhurried, directionless.

There is a pleasure, often forgotten, in the mere act of touch. He will return to the game soon enough, and indulge them both, but now — now he traces her rough knuckles and the curve of her ribs with the same reverence he spends on her breasts and throat. In the end, he splays his hand over her heart, and lets the indefatigable rhythm beneath his palm sink into him.

Thanks to the rain's grey veil, their reflections are pale, faintly blurred, but peaceful, in their thoughtful stillness. Hawke rests with her head against his, her flush now dimmed to pink and her braid hiding one breast. She strokes the line of his jaw, almost absently.

Once more, her beauty strikes him like the keen edge of a blade, but before he can tell her so, and feel her glow at the compliment, an unexpected wave of loss cuts through him. It has no source, no cause, but all he can do in the wake of its passage is gather Hawke closer, bury his face in her hair and breathe her in.

The game ceases to matter. All that matters is her, is _Hawke_ , the mad, brave woman who smiles in her sleep, who has put her whole heart in his hands. If he lost her —

He will not.

The thoughts pass swiftly, and barely leave an echo behind them, save a chill deep in his chest that dissipates when Hawke speaks.

"Love? Is everything all right?"

"All is well," he says, and kisses her to seal it. The heavy tail of her braid sweeps across his chest as they lean into each other, making it his turn to shiver. On impulse, he reaches for the ribbon tied in her hair and tugs it loose.

Hawke makes a quick noise of surprise as her hair tumbles about them, but melts as soon as Fenris buries his hands in the thick waves, still damp from her bath. She plunges all of herself into the kiss, as she always does, as if each is the first, and the strange loss passes through him again. He ignores it — there is no place for sadness here, nor anything but Hawke. She makes it easy to forget when a light tug to her hair makes her wriggle and sigh.

Fenris lets his free hand fall from her cheek to skim past her breasts, marveling again at their fullness, the way her nipples harden again at the faintest touch. He chafes one peak between his fingers, speed and pressure building, until Hawke breaks from their kiss with a cry.

"Love —"

He hushes her, still stroking, until she writhes on his lap, pinned in place by his hands in her hair and on her breast. Her hips strain again, unfulfilled desire coaxed easily back to full flame, and before she can do more than whisper his name, Fenris presses his hand once more between her legs.

The high whining noise she makes as he slips two fingers into her sex nearly makes him give up the game and have her there — his cock, pinned under her, burns against his thigh, the promise of release intoxicating — but Hawke's will come first, after all his teasing.

Her hips jerk with every thrust of his fingers, her breath punched out of her as he carefully presses against the hard nub over her entrance. Careful, slow pressure with the heel of his hand, taking her from cries of pleasure to breathless gasps, to barely any sound at all. Her back arches, her throat vibrates with her unvoiced moans — he would have her like this forever if he could, on the cusp of release, heart beating like a caged bird against his chest, his whole world narrowed to her body and her smell, the sight of her in the mirror.

She almost shouts when he adds a third finger, hands braced on his thighs and almost lifting herself free. Her face moves through a swift change in expression, too fast for Fenris to read. But he knows to pause and pull back his hand, though every nerve in his body screams at him to continue. Hawke falls forward, inhaling in huge gulps. Fenris catches her, stroking her back, eases her to sit again with her back to his chest.

"Hawke?" he asks, still rubbing slow circles over her shoulder blades. His arousal seems secondary, a dim satellite around a fierce star. "Yes?"

She nods, jerky at first, then she draws a deep breath and seems to steady. "A bit much," she says, running a hand over her eyes and giving him a weak smile. "I just — just a moment, love."

While Hawke breathes, slow and deep, Fenris lifts his fingers to his mouth and tastes them. His cock twitches — by unspoken agreement, neither of them feel fulfilled unless he has tasted her, or she him — but he wills himself to be patient. Only a little longer.

Hawke catches his wrist a moment later, tugging his hand toward her sex, huffing and blushing when he laughs quietly into her hair. "Greedy now," he teases, to be rewarded with another pout.

"And whose fault is that, hmm?" She moans as he enters her again, body loose and welcoming, and grips his free hand as he begins a slow, easy rhythm. "Maker, Fenris, you'll drive me out of my head like this."

"I have considered that." Her breath hitches, and her sex clenches about his fingers. "Having you, like this, as many times as I can. How many times —"

Hawke whines. Her thighs shake against his hand in unending tremors. _She's close_ , he exults, harder than he can remember, his pulse a mad throb in his ears. _So close. A little more, Hawke, just a little longer._

He slows his pace, leaving her gasping and nearly sobbing. "Fenris —" she begs, thighs falling open, no shyness left, only need. "Fenris, _please_ —"

"You are lovely," Fenris tells her, mouth at her ear. Hawke moans, voice breaking, and sags against him. His desire sparks hotter — she understands, now, that her release will come when he lets it, and she wishes him to go on. "Lovely, and mad, and impossible — Hawke, you are —"

His own voice, rough already, fades into silence. There is nothing else to say, nothing he can say that could encompass the need, the longing for her that some days threatens to drown him. The only sounds in the room are the obscene, slick noise of his hand spurring her higher, higher, and the hitch of Hawke's breath.

"Now," he says, when she sinks against his chest, and even he is dizzy , " _now,_ Hawke."

Fenris had thought her responsive before, with her gasps and moans, but Hawke's climax catches him off-guard. Her whole body spasms, a single choked cry leaving her mouth before she falls silent, almost thrashing in his arms. He crushes her against his chest, panting, moaning, lost in the fall of her hair, the only sound in his ears her shattered cries.

Time slips away; when Fenris comes back to himself, the storm has passed away from Kirkwall and left a sullen rain in its place. Hawke has curled into him, shivering a little, her breath damp on his collarbone. He rubs her back and kisses the top of her head, which earns him a little grumbling sigh, and then the warmth of her mouth on his neck.

"Yes?" he asks, when she finally looks up at him. Her eyes are sleepy, dimmed to cobalt by the rain, but she nods, her old, sweet smile, the first he ever saw, curving her reddened mouth.

"You mean that wasn't the grand finale?" She laughs and blows a hair out of her face. "Maker, but you — oh!"

Fenris lifts her easily, a glow of pleasure in his chest at the way she slings her arms around his neck, and carries her to the bed. Her ridiculous bed, full of innumerable pillows and too many blankets — he lies her in its center, and for a moment only stares at the shock of her black hair against the white of the covers.

She shifts under his gaze, her shyness not yet gone, but lets him strip away her shift without a word of protest. When he touches her knee, she lets her thighs fall open with a sigh, and settles deeper against her pillows.

The sight of her sex, glistening and pink, brings his arousal crashing upon him, and he is breathless against it, battered by waves against implacable rock. Awaiting his touch, she nearly overwhelms him, without a single word or movement.

"I love you." The words surprise him. He says them so rarely — action is his province, not words — they seem to catch on hooks in his throat.

Hawke's face brightens, and her smile breaks like the morning sun cresting the horizon.

"Fenris." Her hands coast up his chest, his arms, to end cupping his face. Her eyes seem to glow, and he marvels at how he brought her such joy, with such a simple gift. "I love you."

Her fingers leave his markings tingling as they pass, but any pain he might have felt is a lifetime away. He has learned, at last, her touch holds no threat, and so he feels no fear of her, or the power within her. The game cannot be played without trust on both sides.

"Come here," she whispers, pulling him down to her. "Let's get these out of the way — Fenris?"

He holds her hands still, inches away from his hips. Hawke arches one brow, pointedly not looking at his cock and how it yet strains his trousers, but says nothing.

"Yes?" Fenris asks, and feels a dark thrill as comprehension dawns in her gaze.

_No, Hawke, the game is not yet ended._

She licks her lips, her pulse once more fluttering in her throat. "Yes," she says, drawing a shaking breath. " _Yes._ "

He lets go of her wrists long enough to get out of his trousers; he'd considered, for half a heartbeat, simply pulling them down, and being inside her warmth a few seconds sooner, but he wants to feel her body along every inch of his. There is no compromise, not when Hawke shivers and watches him with such an eager gaze.

Hawke reaches for him as soon as he is naked, and manages to skim her fingers over his thighs before Fenris catches her and pins her hands to her chest. Another light hold, no trouble at all to break, but when she gives him a tiny nod, he tightens his grip.

She gasps at that, which Fenris notes for later, with the same dark thrill as before. Then, he shifts her to lie on her side, and curls against her, cock resting against the curve of her arse. Hawke presses back into him, sending long arcs of pleasure through his cock that spread over his entire body. He lets his head fall to her shoulder with a groan, and feels her press again.

Hawke is smiling, almost innocently, when he looks toward the mirror. _Almost_ is the operative word; she cannot hide the mischievous glint in her eyes.

So, she thinks to shift the game. The blood begins to beat in Fenris' ears. Perhaps she will, one night — but tonight he wants her this way, pinned under his gaze and hands, and no other.

"Naughty," he murmurs into her ear. Hawke's smile turns bold, radiating delight in her transparent gambit. "But you see, Hawke, I still hold quite an advantage." He gives her wrists a squeeze, and Hawke's smile drops away. A new depth gleams in her eyes, to match the one in his own.

 _We play a deep game,_ he thinks, nuzzling into her neck, covering her pulse with his mouth. When he looks up, her wide-eyed reflection nods once, and again. His cock throbs, pinned once again between their bodies, and with a groan he parts her thighs to slip between them.

She is still wet, and he enters her without resistance. The relief — the relief astounds him. All about him is slick heat, and when Hawke tilts back her hips to take him deeper, he almost loses all control. Fenris squeezes her thigh until she hisses, then pulls back with an apology murmured at her ear. She turns her head to meet his mouth, forgiveness in her kiss — until he thrusts, and she breaks away to hide her face in the pillows. Her thighs close, enveloping him in almost unbearable warmth, and for a long moment Fenris lets himself melt into the pleasure of her body.

But — this will not do. He has a plan, if a simple one, and for it to work, she must look up.

"Hawke." He lifts her head with his free hand, angles her to face the mirror. Somehow, through it all, he does not lose a stroke, keeps his careful rhythm, even when she makes a mewling noise that seems to set his entire body aflame. She tries to look away, but he coaxes her to look up once more, though she squirms and whines high in her throat.

"Watch," he says, voice sand-rough and nearly breaking. She _must_ look, she _must_ see how their bodies move together. "Watch what I do to you, Hawke."

Her whole body trembles, but she looks. She watches, because he told her to, and he exults, he rejoices, as her eyes go wide and she pushes back to meet every thrust. And when he spreads her legs, so they can both see his cock as he buries in her sex, again and again, she keens a long, pure note of pleasure and climaxes around him.

This time, her pleasure is sharp, almost painful as she clenches around him. Fenris hardly notices — he can bring her off with his tongue and fingers, but rarely with his cock alone, and it drives him into her harder, willing her climax to go on and on.

They are beautiful together, moving as one body, one mind. More than that, they are safe — he would never harm her, or allow harm to come, and she knows this, believes it as absolute truth. The game is deep, Fenris knows, only because they will it to be.

She falls limp at last, sobbing out the last of her pleasure into the blankets, only looking up when Fenris strokes between her legs with gentle fingers. "Again, Hawke," he says, feeling her twist and hearing her cry, " _again_."

And she does, for a wonder, too exhausted by pleasure to do anything else — too exhausted by what he has done, is doing to her, what she _wants_ him to do to her, and Fenris comes, hips losing all rhythm as his mind loses track of all but sensation: heat, the smell of sweat and rain, two voices raised in thoughtless pleasure.

When the agony of his climax fades — agony only because it burns too hot to last for long — Fenris finds himself with his head pillowed on Hawke's hair, both arms around her. He would linger within her, as long as he can, but she trembles too hard to be from pleasure, so he turns her over with gentle hands, and finds her tear-streaked but smiling.

"Hawke, is all well?" He reaches for her face, but pauses, waiting for her word before anything else.

"Well? I —" She touches her cheeks, frowning at her fingers when they come away wet. "Oh, yes, my love, I'm fine, it was just —" She draws a deep breath, and shudders as she wipes at her eyes. "It was wonderful, I'm just…I don't know. Can we…?"

Fenris takes her into his arms as she curls around him. "You're shivering," he says, stroking her back. "Are you sure you're well?"

"I feel _delicious_." She props her chin on his chest to meet his eye. There are still tears on her cheeks, but she lets him wipe them away. "Delicious, and wrung out, and I'm not sure if I'll be walking for the next two weeks. How do _you_ feel?"

Tired. Scraped clean. Fulfilled, in a way he had never before considered. And safe, which is still perhaps the greatest gift he has ever been given. What he says, though, is simply, "I am well, Hawke."

She hums, and rests her head against him. Her fingers play over his chest as she clings to him, touch for touch's sake, and she only stirs when the room falls into full darkness. Then, she sits up with a reluctant sigh, cups her hands together, and opens them to release a tiny flock of golden lights. They hover all about her, magic made beautiful simply because she can, before darting away toward candles and the fireplace. 

"There," she says, lying down once more as her magic slowly illumines the space with a warm glow."I love you, Fenris."

He has no reply this time, too full to speak, and while desire stirs as she rests against him, it is a distant thing, a star viewed from a window, and then forgotten.

***

_There are girls dancing upon the green. They wear white dresses and white flowers in their hair, and even from his place at the very edge, he can hear them giggling. A Chantry sister tries to lead a group of boys in a song, but they scatter whenever she approaches, spinning in circles until they fall over, then rise again with grass stains from shoulders to knees._

_Now come the older children, his age and more, in yellow and red, holding hands with self-conscious defiance. The sister gives up her mission and waves them into the green, and disappears in the Chantry. There are grown-ups clustering around the green, arms about each other and clapping their hands as the children dance._

_He could dance with them, if he chose. His mother and sister stand with the other families, and beckon him to join them, but he stays where he is, waiting for no reason he understands._

_No reason, till a girl in a blue dress comes down the road, her feet bare and her hair tied up with a ribbon. He shouldn't stare, but she's staring at him, so he decides he will, just this once._

_This is why he was waiting: for her to come down the road, shoulders and cheeks sunburned and smiling, because they were going to dance and there was nothing he wanted more._

_She smiles at him from across the green, and lifts up her skirt to hurry toward him. He watches her come, heart leaping, and high above the singing and the dancing he hears her laugh. The breeze plucks the ribbon out of her hair and sends it spiraling behind her, but she never pauses, never stops laughing, and as she comes to the end of the green she runs, hands held out, and when he reaches out for her, he finds himself laughing, too._

*** 

He wakes to find Hawke watching him, her chin resting on his chest.

"A good dream?" she asks, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "You were smiling."

Two laughs still echo in his mind, drawing ever-farther away. Fenris gives himself a moment to listen after them, not quite regretting their loss, then traces the curve of Hawke's mouth.

"A good dream," he agrees. "Though I prefer being awake."

***

_Ah! The time is short._

_Leave off gazing over your shoulder, forget_

_your shy dreaming. We are here. We are alive_

_now, and must go defiant toward the night._

_But all before us is the world, awaiting_

_our bare feet to make it green once more,_

_and though we like birds beat fast and desperate_

_against this brief cage, this darkening hour,_

_a king I have made you, and my body your kingdom._

 

 _-_ Viola Kashkin (a last, incomplete fragment, discovered in Dragon 9:05)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this _incredibly_ self-indulgent piece! Come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com) <3


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